


Tommy Always Had a Thing for Theatrics

by vizarding



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Fake Out Make Out, Kidnapping, M/M, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 06:58:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4994674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vizarding/pseuds/vizarding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce is taken for a nice little waltz in Tommy's arms, and yet one little word throws off the entire game and changes the rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tommy Always Had a Thing for Theatrics

Bruce awakens alone, hazy and empty. There’s a burning feeling clenching his gut, something important is going on but he can’t get his mind together. It’s dark-– for the most part-– shadows filling the corners and covering most of the room and hiding the strange forms barely outlined by the vague lights from high windows. What was visible, so barely lit by ever so often flickering bulbs from above, looking like… possibly a ball room. (Possibly a warehouse _decorated_ to look like a ballroom.) He couldn’t move, his limbs were heavy— _everything_ was heavy. He could barely keep his lids open. The memories of it all were in no rush to come back to him. It poured in a slow, grainy, blurred; Hush somehow threatening the city (again) (how)— Bruce would have found him easily enough, had Tommy not found him first (how?). The threat of Tim hidden away somewhere sliding from Tommy’s lips had caught him off guard.

And that’s all it took for Tommy to stick him with a needle. —How could he be so sloppy? To fall prey to it so easily? Who knows what could be happening to Tim.

He twitched his fingers.

Movement was coming back, but not soon enough. His ears caught the faint sound of shoes tapping on the floor, someone approaching him in the dim light. That damn jade pendant was the first thing that his eyes caught, standing out bright and obnoxious, almost as obnoxious as the grin on Tommy’s face— not his face. Bruce’s face. Twisted in such an ugly, smug way. What an awful reflection to wake up to. He was sharply dressed, in a nice tux— Bruce noticed he, too, was dressed the same. When did that happen? Did Tommy... change his clothes?

Tommy took his hand in a firm grip, hoisting him up.

He still couldn’t manage to speak. Soon he would, but not now.

Tommy might have known this, might have not, either way, his arm wrapped tight around Bruce’s waist and they… they began to dance. Why? Why were they dancing. They waltzed around the floor, a hum rumbling in Tommy’s chest. Bruce could feel it against his own as their bodies pressed together, it was something familiar. And then he began to _sing_ — why was he singing? What possibly called for singing in this situation? This wasn't a musical. He hoped it wasn't a musical. The song was— a song from a children’s movie Bruce couldn’t remember but distinctly knows.

 _“Sneaking whores, father drinks, things I always remember— and mother’s glare those minks. Once upon a November. A young boy’s plans, ready and warm, sending them out into the perfect storm, pride swelling rightfully, across my memory.”_ With a few changes to the lyrics, obviously. His voice was deep, booming, and mirthfully. He was enjoying this sick little game, that was clear enough even if his motivations remained annoyingly unreadable.

Bruce let him have his time, while he worked on getting feeling back. At least his feet could keep up with the forced movements, no longer dragging on the floor.

And then Tommy finally spoke.

“You must be enjoying this, dancing with yourself. You’ve always been a narcissist, Bruce.” And Bruce so wished he didn’t. His voice was dripping with amusement Bruce didn’t want to hear; he didn’t have time for this. He found a voice to reply.

“You’re confusing us, Tommy. You’re the narcissist.”

Tommy let his head lull onto his shoulder, whispering _oh_ so close, breath brushing over his ear, “Oh, but I am you, Bruce, have you forgotten?”

Then he dipped him back.

“You’re not me. You’re insane.”

And then back up, Bruce face to face with Tommy’s sick little smirk. With his own face. He didn’t want to see this. “And you’re not, Mr. Bat-man?”

“Do you know how many times that statement has been thrown back at me. I don’t have time for this, Tommy. What did you do with Tim. Where are the bombs. What do you want with me?”

“What do I want with you?” A laugh, continuing their waltz. He let Bruce fly from his grip, swinging out at arms length and then right back in. “Why, this. This right here. I have you right where I want you, I could do anything at all. So why would I tell you exactly what I’m planning? You’re drugged, helpless. Right in my arms.”

“That’s a romantic statement.”

“What?” There was something that struck Tommy in that moment, he could hear it. He had been planning to do something, say something to distract him until he could move enough to throw him off— but of all things, _that_ struck him. That one statement he’d made, the one. (The one joke he’d make for once in a strained situation. Dick had challenged him to make them at times.) He’d (uncomfortably) played with thoughts of Tommy’s obsession in the past, but never voiced them. It was unlikely. And yet.

“This entire set up. We’re slow dancing, and you want me in your arms.”

“There you are again Bruce, ever the narcissist. The spoiled brat that everyone has to love.” They weren’t dancing anymore. And yet Bruce could feel his grip tighten around his waist.

“And you’re the psychotic spoiled brat obsessed with that spoiled brat.” He pushed. This was getting to him. “Tell me, Tommy, what exactly did you expect to gain pretending to be me? Was it thrilling for you? Did it—”

Tommy’s arm wrapped around his shoulders, clawing through the fabric. He was angry now. “Alright Bruce, say what you’re saying is true, because you always need to be right, don’t you? My obsession with you is based on some sort of made-up lust you’re fabricating between us. That still puts you nowhere at the advantage. You are still. Very. Helpless.“ With every word their faces seemed closer together. "With no means to escape.”

Bruce didn’t plan this far ahead. (For once. He didn’t know where this was leading.) Of all things to push, this is something he didn’t know how to follow through with. Not for Tommy, of all people. But he had to.

"We’re alone, Tommy.”

“And?”

“If I were to humor your attraction—”

“I do not need pity from you, Bruce, especially pity based on lies.”

It was so very odd to see Bruce’s own face contorted in such anger, his own brow furrowed and nostrils flaring and lip curled back and snarling with anger. (And denial.) It was odd mirror to have. And yet there he saw the brow soften in the smallest of ways. Their faces were a hair apart, he felt Tommy’s nose brush against his own.

No, no nonono, no. No.

No.

Yes, you _need_ to, Gotham is in danger, Tim is in danger, it’s working.

No nono no. No.

No.

No— he didn’t want to kiss Tommy Elliot.

No— he didn’t want to kiss Tommy Elliot _with that face_.

Their lips connect in the slightest way, a light kiss. Tommy’s grip is still so firm around him it almost hurts, he’s so tense. Their lips connected again, and with what little movement Bruce had, he… he kissed back, hand lightly on Tommy’s back. (He could move his hands and arms now…) He needed to. Just for the moment. And the way Tommy _responded_ ; needy and hungry and so very eager to get his tongue in Bruce’s mouth. Grasping at him, hand sliding down his back. The one thing Bruce _wouldn’t have wanted to be right about_ in all the things to be right about.

Bruce ended up back in the chair he had been sitting in at the start, Tommy sitting in a chair next to him. He had to wonder where they were, he hadn’t thought that since he woke up— but he didn’t have time as he was pulled close, being kissed, having his mouth sighed into, his thigh squeezed, his hair mussed. A bite— a hard bite— into his lower lip sent Bruce’s eyes flying open. It hurt, the smallest taste of blood. Tommy _still_ continued, barely taking a time to breathe, or letting Bruce have the chance either. In the moments they did, he almost had to pant. He was flushed— his face, and his face that Tommy was wearing. 

Nono. No. no.

No.

No this was done.

He checked his movement. Legs still slightly weak. No walking on his own yet but he didn’t need that. Could he form a fist?

Yes?

Yes.

That’s all that mattered.

In those moments Tommy pulled away, so satisfied and in bliss, he didn’t even notice the fist sent directly into his nose. He didn’t notice it, it happened, and he was on the floor too unconscious to make some snide comment about it.

One punch was always Bruce’s specialty.

* * *

He found a cell phone ringing in the clothes he had been wearing before; they were in a pile the corner of the warehouse Tommy had decorated. For their… _date_. 

It was Tim. 

He’d never been captured.

He had no idea what Bruce was even talking about, they hadn’t been able to find Hush all night. Just that he and Nightwing had been taking care of the supposed bombs.

**_That were fake._ **


End file.
